


Allie (I'm Not Broken-Hearted, I'm Just Kind Of Pining After You)

by orphan_account



Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: 2011, Allie (song), Fluff, I don't know if it even counts as an OMC but whatever, Im running out of tag ideas help, Light Angst, Loneliness, M/M, Making Out, Mutual Pining, Online Dating, Soul Punk Era, Tea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-08-13 09:24:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7971673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The weight of loneliness settles in his chest yet again, and he subconsciously reaches for his phone, thrown carelessly on the sheets beside him. Instead of catching himself and abruptly pulling away, as usual, he lets himself grab the little device.</p><p>Of course, the next thing he knows, he's staring at Pete's contact info, thumb hovering over the call button. Patrick scowls, angry with himself, and chucks the phone to the end of the bed.</p><p>==========</p><p>After Fall Out Boy go on hiatus, Patrick starts his solo project, keeping himself busy. He can't stop thinking about Pete, which only fuels his loneliness, so Patrick starts dating online.</p><p>When he meets a guy named Alix (who prefers Allie) with similar interests and a damn good sense of humor, he's hooked. Totally Patrick's type, despite the fact that he's got no profile picture and Patrick hasn't received one yet.</p><p>The only problem? He reminds Patrick too much of Pete, and Patrick wishes he didn't. He wants to forget Pete, not be talking to his mirror image on a daily basis.</p><p>What happens when Patrick decides he wants to meet this "Allie" in person?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm juggling two fics at once and probably three soon, but oh well, who needs sleep when you've got fanfics to write, ideas to brain-vomit, and ten pages of history notes to do?
> 
> I'm not kidding about the history notes. It's madness.
> 
> But anyway, this idea popped up in my head and I was like "WHOA O______O"
> 
> So here you go, the Soul Punk fic in which Patrick is lonely/pining after Pete, and seeks refuge in online dating. Hope it's not too shitty.
> 
> Title from Allie by Patrick Stump.

The tea sloshes over the side of the mug as Patrick sets it down, making a small brown puddle on the tabletop. He groans and reaches for a wad of tissues to sop up the mess. When the wood is dry, he leans back into the pillows, closing his eyes against the dim light of the hotel room and sighing.

The weight of loneliness settles in his chest yet again, and he subconsciously reaches for his phone, thrown carelessly on the sheets beside him. Instead of catching himself and abruptly pulling away, as usual, he lets himself grab the little device.

Of course, the next thing he knows, he's staring at Pete's contact info, thumb hovering over the call button. Patrick scowls, angry with himself, and chucks the phone to the end of the bed.

 _Dammit_ , he's done that so many times he's lost count. Always on the verge of calling his best friend (former best friend?) and then remembering that Pete was the reason he was alone and constantly upset with himself. Patrick knew that it wasn't one-hundred percent Pete's fault, but he didn't like to think about that, as selfish and bratty as it was. It was easier to blame Pete than to hate himself for what had happened.

He's not sure he could deal with it otherwise.

 

After half an hour of staring dully at the plaster ceiling, Patrick suddenly sits up, reaching for his phone and tapping his way to the App Store. He's gotta forget about Pete, find someone else, stop this insanity, stop the pining...

He mindlessly downloads a few dating apps and spends the next two hours making accounts, stopping only to figure out the issue of his profile picture (too straightforward and people will recognize him, so he ends up taking a discreet shot from a back angle).

 

A few days later, he's scrolling through "matches," bored with all of them. Until he hits one that stands out for some reason. He isn't sure why, but he just feels drawn to it.

"Alix," the person's name is. There's no profile picture, but he simply furrows his brow and taps on their profile anyway.

 

_hi, i'm alix. i'm 28 and a guy and single. also i'm bi. message me if you want._

_**Interests:** music (punk rock and stuff), sleeping, tattoos, i like dogs (they're adorable, what?) _

_**Dislikes:** the shift key (aka the bane of my existence) _

_**Hobbies:** playing music, writing, sleeping, guitar _

 

Patrick feels his mouth curve into a small smile. There's not much to be said about this guy, but he likes the same things as Patrick: most importantly, music. The next thing he knows, he's typing out a message.

 

_Hi, I'm Patrick. We got matched and you seem really nice, so if you want to chat, I'm open._

 

He taps send, and gets a reply a mere five minutes later. The guy must've been on at the time.

 

**hi patrick, u seem nice too. we can chat :)**

_Um, okay. I don't know if you've seen my profile yet?_

**yeah i did. looked before i messaged, safety first right? :P looks like we like a lot of the same stuff, what kind of music do u like?**

_Haha yeah :) I like kind of older stuff actually, Prince, Michael Jackson, Elvis Costello. But also Television and Green Day and hardcore whatever, so I'm not a total grandpa, I guess :P_

**that's cool, i like hardcore stuff too. used to be in a band, did screaming vocals.**

_Oh, really? That's awesome! What was it called, maybe I've heard you guys?_

**it didn't rlly have a name, sorry :/**

_That's ok. Are you in any music projects now tho?_

**um, kind of sort of. electronic sort of thing. u?**

_Solo._

**nice. were u ever in a band?**

 

Patrick hesitates and stares at the screen, the all-too-familiar lump rising in his throat

 

_Yes, but we're on break. Or we broke up. I don't really know anymore._

**sorry to hear, what was it?**

_The band or the issues?_

**um the band first but if you want to talk about issues i'll listen**

 

Patrick isn't sure whether to first tell Alix the truth and have to deal with whatever happens, be pissed, or be grateful that he's willing to listen. If he tells Alix that he's Patrick Stump From Fall Out Boy, he risks screwing up this whole thing that they've got going, and he doesn't want that. He doesn't want a relationship for his fame.

 

_Well, we got kind of tired of each other I guess. It just wasn't working anymore._

 

And, thank god, Alix doesn't pry about the band name.

 

**sorry to hear that, do u ever miss them tho?**

 

Patrick scrunches his pale eyebrows together. Kind of a weird question, but the guy is probably just curious or feeling empathetic, so he opens up about it.

 

_Yes. A lot, actually. They were my best friends, especially the bassist. Annoying as hell sometimes but the best friend I could imagine asking for. Then one day it just kind of fell apart._

 

Tears well in his ocean eyes, unbidden, and he angrily swipes them away.

 

**im sorry. that must be awful.**

_Yeah, thanks anyway. So you said you write?_

**um yeah. kind of.**

_Music?_

**lyrics**

 

This guy reminds Patrick more and more of Pete. Maybe that's why he likes him so much, which is strange, because logically, it should only be making him push Alix away. He doesn't want a mirror image of his former best friend, right?

 

They stay up late (one in the morning, to be exact) talking, until a mutual agreement is reached to at least _try_ and get some sleep.

Patrick does so feeling happier than he has in a year.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:)

_Hey Alix, Patrick again._

**hey pat. i prefer allie if that's not too weird for u.**

_Sure, that's fine. Please don't call me Pat tho._

**no prob, thanks. what can i call u?**

 

Patrick hesitates, morning coffee halfway to his lips. Pete used to call him "'Trick," which he secretly loved, but he isn't sure if he wants to give that to a half-stranger.

 _"Half-stranger" meaning "not Pete,"_ he chastises himself somewhat bitterly.

 

_Patrick is ok. Just never Pat._

**gotcha. so how's life?**

_As always. Bored out of my skull._

**aw. that sucks.**

**we could play a game if you want**

 

Patrick raises an eyebrow, but grins nevertheless.

 

_What kind of game?_

**...flappy bird?**

_BITCH NO NOT THAT EXCUSE FOR AN ENDOTHERMIC VERTEBRATE_

**lol, someone knows their biology**

_You want biology, I'll GIVE you biology_

**does that mean what i think it means?**

_Maybe. Maybe not. Depends._

**;)**

_Lol, how the fuck did we manage to sexualize an infuriating children's game?_

**no fucking clue**

 

Patrick chokes back a laugh as he sips his coffee. It quickly dies in his throat, however, as he realizes he made it the same way he had always made it for Pete: creamy to the point where it was practically hot ice cream, and sweet to the point of diabetes within six ounces of caffeine.

He pours it down the drain and makes a new cup, bitter and dark.

 _To match my mood_ , he thinks to himself, almost smiling at the silly cliché.

 

_Hi Allie._

**hey patrick. i have candy crush, not bored anymore**

_Nice, what level are you on?_

**184.**

_Already?! How long have you been playing exactly?_

**um...idk**

_Meaning like three months?_

**um. a week.**

**not to brag.**

_Dude wtf you are like the Candy Crush Master, that's amazing, how do you even do that?_

**idk, i just do**

_I bet you "just do" a lot of other stuff too, huh..._

**why does half of what u say come out so fucking innuendo-y?**

_Not my fault u have a dirty mind :P_

**i'm guessing it would not help my case to point out that u put a tongue face there...**

_You guessed right, then._

**what r u talking about trick, i'm always right!**

 

Patrick freezes mid-snort to gape at the screen.

_Trick._

Allie called him _Trick_.

There's only one person in the world whom he permits to call him Trick, and that person is Pete.

 

_What did you call me?_

 

There's a long pause before Allie replies, and anxiety begins to grip Patrick.

 

**um, trick. is that ok?**

 

Patrick swallows, pursing his lips and slowly typing out his response.

 

_Just Patrick, please._

**ok. sorry.**

_It's okay. It's just that my best friend, the bassist I told you about. He used to call me that._

 

Another long pause.

 

**what was his name? if you're ok with telling me. you don't have to.**

 

Patrick hesitates for what feels like the millionth time. But he feels like he can trust this "Allie," like there's a connection there, even over the Internet, even over the miles that separate them. Which reminds him, he doesn't know where Allie lives. LA, Chicago, Helena, Phoenix. Hell, he could be in Tokyo for all Patrick knows.

He sighs (it's a little early for locations anyways, and besides, they were matched, so he must be relatively close, right?) and decides to tell the truth.

 

 _Pete. His name was Pete_.

**huh.**

_What? Do you know him?_

**idk. it sounds kinda familiar but idk.**

 

Slight panic begins to bubble in Patrick's chest. If Allie recognizes the name pair, he's found out.

PeteandPatrick.

PatrickandPete.

They're like peanut butter and jelly, rock and roll, bread and butter, black and white. The names just fit together, like jigsaw pieces. And if Allie figures out that it's PatrickandPete, PeteandPatrick, from Fall Out Boy...

Patrick flops back into the pillows, groaning. He shouldn't have told Allie. At least he didn't say it was Pete Wentz, though. That's got to be some credit to his part, right? Rolling his eyes at his own naïveté, he picks up his phone when it buzzes again.

 

**sorry, man. i can't place it. :/**

 

Patrick exhales, relieved.

 

_That's okay._

 

As an afterthought, he adds:

 

_I'm over him anyways._

 

No harm done. It's a little white lie, a tiny fib.

Deep down, Patrick knows he's lying to himself. He'll probably never get over Pete.

_Stupid Pete Wentz._

His phone doesn't vibrate again, so he cocoons himself in the white comforter of the hotel bed, falling into a restless sleep and, of course (curse his damn subconscious), dreaming of Pete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH DEAR LORD IM HAVING A SNEEZING FIT
> 
> SEND HELP
> 
> AND KLEENEX
> 
> MIDNIGHT SNEEZING FITS ARE NOT SUITABLE FOR FANFIC WRITING


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A nice 50% flashback chapter for ya. :) This was fun.

_Patrick feels the bunk shift as someone clambers in beside him, pressing close._

_"Pete," he murmurs, slowly exiting his comfortable state of near-sleep, "Pete, it's three in the morning." Somewhere in the back of his delirious mind, a voice tugs as him, saying that something isn't right._

_And it suddenly becomes startlingly clear to Patrick that Pete is in his bed, which is a new occurrence. He wonders how he immediately knew that the mystery presence was Pete._

_"Two," his best friend's muffled voice comes from close behind him, and Patrick shudders slightly as hot breath fans over the shell of his ear. "'S_  two _in the morning."_

_Patrick rolls over in the limited space they have, trying to face Pete. "I don't give a fuck; they're practically the same." He swears he can hear the smirk in Pete's voice, if not see it in the pitch-black surrounding them. "You don't care. Just that I'm here, huh?"_

_And Patrick would smack him and kick him out for that, had he not been so exhausted. "What do you want, Pete?"_

_"I can't sleep. Sing me? Please?" Patrick huffs softly, though he's not that annoyed. Pete is in his bunk, after all, pressed up close to him, under the thin blanket._

_Oh, and he's in his underwear._

_Curse Pete Wentz and his stupid sleeping attire._

_Patrick does his best to ignore this and opens his mouth, a soft melody floating from his lips. "You only hold me up like this, 'cause you don't know who I really am..." Pete sighs and buries his head in Patrick's chest, inhaling past the blue t-shirt._

_By the time Patrick finishes, Pete's breathing has calmed to a slow, deep rhythm, and it's only just before Patrick drifts into unconsciousness a few minutes later does he realize what words he had been singing to Pete._

 

Patrick wakes with a jolt as his phone buzzes beside him on the pillow, the music that he fell asleep to still drifting quietly from the small speakers.

 

**hi patrick. sorry about yesterday.**

_Please don't apologize, Allie. U did nothing wrong. It's okay, I swear._

**ok. thnks. :)**

_Would it kill you to type one vowel tho?_

**ys t wld**

 

Patrick laughs, pushing away nostalgic thoughts of song titles with missing vowels. He thinks for a moment, then sends a request he's been meaning to send (but never plucked up the courage to) for the past three hours.

 

_Want to talk on the phone? Like with actual voices, not just texting?_

 

The silence that follows is the longest yet. He chews nervously at the inside of his cheek as he waits. An entire song goes by before Allie responds.

 

**no, i'm sorry. just not comfortable with it. i get really awkward on the phone.**

_Me too, I'm okay with it if you are._

**i said no, patrick**

 

Patrick flinches slightly when he reads the harsh, concise reply, slightly taken aback by the sudden aggression laced throughout the sentence.

 

_Okay, okay, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pressure you. We don't have to._

**i'm sorry too. i didn't mean for it to come out like that.**

 

Patrick feels his guilt soften into a mood similar to his previous light, content one, and he lets a small smile creep through to his lips. Allie is sweet, really.

 

_I'm no good with words either, it's okay._

**i'm worse**

 

The momentary happiness is replaced by something else as the blood drains from Patrick's already-pale face. He stares at his screen, unmoving. He brushes a lock of bleached blond hair (a new development; he's rather proud of himself) out of his wide eyes, squints at the phone, blinks rapidly.

The line runs through Patrick's head over and over again, on an increasingly irritating loop. He can't stop it and he doesn't try to, for some reason.

The flashbacks abruptly slam into him, as if he had hit a brick wall.

 

_Blinding colored lights blinking across his face, the roar of the crowd, the screams of the guitars, the pounding of the drums, his own voice echoing through his ears as he belts out the final notes of the song._

_Then Pete's lips ghosting over his neck, a trail of hot breath and a tingly sensation in their wake. Warm blood rushing to his cheeks at the action and the crowd screaming even louder, thousands of hands stretching to the darkened sky, bobbing with the beat of the music._

_Cold adrenaline rushing through his veins, a strange combination of euphoria and fear that's oddly addicting. Fingers flying over metal guitar strings, a pale blur as his voice cracks on a high note, a warm body pressed up behind him for the fourteenth time, the audience at their loudest, blinding colored lights--_

 

Patrick jolts back to reality, a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead. He'd forgotten what a concert felt like, and yet he'd just relived one as if it had happened yesterday. This happened sometimes, but he wonders why this particular instance actually made him sweat.

Then phantom memories of soft, chapped lips dance along his throat, and he immediately solves the puzzle.

"Of fucking course," he snarls, repeatedly punching the pillow beside him. _Pete_. It was always about _Pete_ , wasn't it? Everything always circled back to Pete fucking Wentz. Hell, Patrick couldn't even shower without--

He stops mid-punch. _In the shower_. He thought about Pete _in the shower_.

A cry of frustration tears itself from Patrick's throat, rage bubbling beneath his pale skin as a blush crept up his neck. All he wants is to forget about Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III. 

Really, is that too much to ask?

He knows he's having a toddler-like tantrum, but he doesn't even care anymore. He just needs to fucking _forget_ already.

 

_My pic for yours?_

 

A photo of him is attached to the message (taken after he's calmed down somewhat, of course).

 

**patrick, u didn't have to**

_I wanted to._

i **don't want to give u my pic yet tho.**

 

Patrick frowns at his phone.

 

_Why not?_

**it's... it's hard to explain. i'm sorry.**

_How hard can it be to explain? Do you just not feel comfortable sharing yet?_

**no, it's not that.**

_Well then just spit it out, man! Come on!_

**i can't.**

_Fine. No pics. Happy?_

**not really**

 

Patrick growls in frustration. In ten minutes, Allie has managed to go from empathetic to somewhat (quite) obnoxious.

 

_Why not?_

 

No reply. Patrick gives up on Allie for the time being, plugs in his almost-dead phone, and tries to go to sleep.

It's not like he dreams about Pete again.

No.

Of course not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What evil plot twist should I throw in next time?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that I haven't updated as fast as usual! I've been really busy with school and I had this chapter ready last night, but my Internet decided to fuck with me, so I couldn't post it. :/  
> Anyway, excuses and rambling aside, enjoy!

_Patrick's eyes snap open as something hits the side of his head, just above his right temple._

_Turning to look in the direction it had come from, he sees Pete smirking at him from the passenger side of the van. "The hell?" he growls, craning his neck to see what had hit him._

_He leans down and comes back up with a condom. Unused and still in the wrapper, thank god._

_Holding it up, he glares at Pete. "Why the hell," Patrick snarls, "would you throw a fucking condom at me?" Pete merely snickers, and in the blink of an eye, there's something else flying at Patrick's face. It just barely misses him, and he glances down in disbelief._

_"Two condoms?"_

_A volley of foil-wrapped protection suddenly flies at Patrick, and he yelps as they inevitably find their mark. "Why the fuck did you just throw an entire strip's worth of condoms at me?" Patrick all but shrieks, attempting in vain to launch himself at Pete, but failing miserably. He'd forgotten that he still had his seat belt on. He sinks back into the worn seat, seething. The little fucker wouldn't feel his wrath at this moment, it seemed._

_Joe's curly head makes its appearance around the headrest of the passenger seat. "What are you guys even doing back there?" he grumbles, blinking sleepily. Patrick's yelling must have woken him up. Thankfully, Andy keeps his silence._

_Before Patrick can reply, Pete speaks up._

_"I thought Patrick might want a little something for what we wanted to do once we get a hotel night."_

_Patrick goes beet red and starts to sputter, thrashing his feet. Joe simply looks puzzled. "What?" Patrick manages to spring into action before Pete can make it worse. "I said earlier that I wanted to get a really big sugar high just so that I could match Pete."_

_And, like manna from heaven, he discovers a bag of Sour Patch Kids at his side, and holds it up. The better to make his case with, right?_

_"See? Except I wasn't serious. Pete is just fucking with you, Trohman. Go back to sleep." Joe complies, a rare occurrence, and Pete pouts at Patrick. The latter kicks away a condom and curls back into his thin blue blanket without a word, fury still boiling beneath his skin. And something else, too, that he can't quite place._

_But he has a sinking feeling that it's an effect from Pete's words._

_A minute later, however, Pete is nestled up by his side. Patrick growls and swats half-heartedly at him. "Piss off." Pete shrugs, and despite Patrick's protests, dives under the blanket, and is asleep within seconds._

_Patrick rolls his eyes and sighs, secretly smiling to himself._

 

Patrick wakes in the same position he was in the dream, his blond hair draping over his eyes.

Groaning, he rolls onto his back and picks up his phone.

 

_Can I come over?_

** Sure dude, wassup?  **

_I have a problem._

** Oh is it The Problem?  **

_Yes_

** I shall prepare the beer :D **

 

Thirty minutes later, Patrick raises his hand to knock at the door, which blasts open before his knuckles even touch the wood. Brendon beams at him and pulls him inside, Patrick giving a small squeak of protest.

 

One beer and about twenty bear-hugs later, they're seated comfortably on Brendon's couch. "I can't stop thinking about it, I don't know what to do," Patrick says miserably. "I keep having these dreams about him, and--"

Brendon cuts him off, a sly smile on his face that Patrick knows all too well from their prior talks.

" _Dreams_ , you say?"

Patrick scowls and sips at his beer. "Normal memory dreams, thank you very much."

"Oh, I'd say wet dreams are fairly normal."

Patrick, despite having expected this, nearly spits out his beer. _"No wet dreams!"_

Brendon laughs good-naturedly and pats him on the shoulder. "Just fucking with you, man. This is really kind of a dumb question, but have you tried, you know, _forgetting_ about him? Meeting new people?"

Patrick exhales and hides his eyes in the crook of his elbow. "Yeah. I found this guy on a dating website. His name is Alix, he prefers Allie, he's twenty-eight and bi. He seems like the perfect guy, right, we've got all the same interests and shit." Brendon gulps at his beer. "So what's the problem?"

"He reminds me _so much_ of Pete. And these weird things have been happening, too. Like, he called me 'Trick at one point, when I wanted to talk over the phone he got really touchy about it and refused to. I said I was no good with words, he said he was worse. And when I sent him my picture, asking to exchange, he wouldn't give me his and wouldn't tell me why." Patrick ends his rambling with a tired sigh, running a hand through his bleached hair.

"I know the whole thing just screams _creepy Internet stalker, stay away,_ but I don't think he's dangerous. I _know_ he's not, I can feel it. But something's not right."

Brendon is silent for a long moment.

"Who do you think this man is, Patrick?"

Patrick doesn't reply for an equal time.

"I don't know. I want to know, I need to know. I don't want a relationship in the dark, however amazing this person is to me."

"How about this," Brendon says, leaning forward and placing his beer on the coffee table, "I get in touch with Pete, find out where he currently stands on the matter of Patrick Stump. And if it turns out he's the same as you, then I can arrange for you guys to get together, have coffee, lunch, whatever. And you can forget all about this Allie."

It's a kind offer, from a true friend. But Patrick shakes his head. "No, Brendon,  I appreciate it, honestly, but I can't. I want to forget about him, not fuck it all up again."

Brendon thinks for a minute, his chin resting in his hand.

"Okay. How about this: I get hold of Allie, arrange for us all to be in the same place at the same time. Then you come in, I recognize you, he recognizes you from your picture, and _voilà! Instalove_."

Patrick contemplates the offer. It does sound pretty good, and Brendon _does_ have a talent for tracking people down. "Okay," he finally murmurs.

"Let's do it."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry again for not posting for a week! I've just been...lazy. Yes. Lazy. I know. Not busy. Lazy. Too lazy to write but apparently not too busy to do anything else.
> 
> Yes. I know.
> 
> I'm sorry.
> 
> Blame Phil Lester.
> 
> Also! I will be posting an Awkward Story Of The Day at the end of each chapter now. It's a recap of the most horrifically awkward thing I've done that day, because yeah. Not that anyone asked for it, I just thought it would amuse some of you...
> 
> Yeah...
> 
> Probably not...
> 
> I'll be going now.

Patrick watches anxiously as Brendon logs into his dating account. It was a good thing that the younger man already had one on that site, or else Patrick might have gone a bit loopy waiting for him to finish making a profile.

 _Why_ he had an online dating profile, Patrick had no idea, but he wasn't going to complain at the moment.

Within minutes, Brendon had managed to find Allie's profile and was already typing out a message.

 

**Hi, i think you look really cool, can we hang out sometime? Just coffee or something, as friends. Not like a relationship or anything. Unless you want to :P**

 

They send the message (after close scrutiny and editing, courtesy of Patrick) and go off to fuck around on Brendon's Xbox.

 

A few hours later, they're engrossed in a somewhat intense game of Assassin's Creed, and though it's never been Patrick's favorite game, it had multiplayer mode and it definitely beats Dora the Explorer.

He's not even sure _why_ Brendon owns a Dora the Explorer game, but Brendon is Brendon and, like with the online dating, he's learned not to question it.

As Patrick's character (Brendon keeps telling him the name, but he can't remember) is slitting some random guard guy's throat, Brendon's cell phone dings with a new message. Like a couple of twelve-year-old girls, they shriek simultaneously and drop their controllers, lunging for the phone.

Patrick, in his rush, forgets that it's Brendon's phone and only Brendon knows the password, so he sits back on his heels and pouts as his friend opens the message.

Brendon's eyes widen and he squeals in glee. "He said yes!"

Patrick's face splits in a grin. "Great! What time and where?"

His friend reads on and suddenly begins to cackle, rolling around on the floor and clutching at his stomach. "Oh my fucking god... I don't even know if this is a coincidence or what, but... _oh my fucking god..."_

He descends into another fit of giggles and Patrick impatiently snatches the phone from him, ignoring the whines of protest.

" _Stumptown Coffee Roasters?_ " he exclaims in disbelief, jaw going slack.

Brendon snorts and manages to recover enough decent motor skills to snatch the phone back. "Fuck yeah, dude! At nine tomorrow." He snickers again and pats the gaping boy on the shoulder. "Goddamn, that is amazing."

"More like weird," Patrick grumbles, but smiles anyway.

 

At eight the next morning, Patrick steps out of the shower, scrubbing his hair dry with a towel. He'd gone to bed earlier than usual, but he'd had a restless night, tossing and turning, anxious for the day to come. He hopes the dark circles under his eyes won't show too badly.

Patrick had put out the outfit he wanted before stepping into the shower, a rare occurrence for him. He wants to look nice when he meets this Allie, though, so he's not taking chances, He slides into dark skinny jeans and a burgundy button-down shirt, debating over whether or not to wear a hat. In the end, he decides not to, leaving his head bare and trusting his shock of bleached hair to be good enough.

 

By the time Patrick stumbles out of the bathroom, it's eight thirty, and he grimaces. It takes twenty-five minutes to get to the coffee shop, but he still has to eat something. It would probably be kind of humiliating to have his stomach start rumbling in the middle of the whole thing. He makes some toast and eats it while staring at his phone, waiting for Brendon to give him the okay, that Allie has actually showed up and this isn't a hoax or something.

Finally, as he's tugging on a battered pair of black sneakers, his phone buzzes.

 

** He's here. And I'm 99% sure hes not a cereal killer so youre probs safe.  **

** *serial  **

** Damn autocorrect  **

 

Patrick smiles at the error as he turns his keys in the ignition, trying to ignore the butterflies dancing in his stomach as he drives onto the highway.

 

Thirty minutes later, Patrick arrives at the coffee shop and parks the car. Before he gets out, he hesitates, furrowing his brow.

 _Do I really want to do this?_ he thought, staring up at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. _Is this starting a whole new era or something? Without Pete, just me and Allie and whoever else wants to tag along for the ride?_ He twists his keys on their ring, chewing at his lower lip.

"Yes," he finally mutters aloud. "Yes, I am doing this."

Taking a deep breath, Patrick exits the car and begins walking up to the sidewalk, towards the coffee shop. He can see Brendon sitting at a table outside, sipping coffee. Patrick can't see the face of the guy across from him, but from what he can tell, the guy is fairly short. He's wearing a gray hoodie and a black beanie, black jeans and black sneakers like Patrick's.

As he gets closer, Patrick realizes that Brendon seems kind of jumpy and anxious, yet strangely friendly with the guy.

This is it. He's about to meet Allie.

Patrick fixes a surprised-happy expression onto his face (he's always been somewhat of an actor, a good one if he does say so himself) and approaches them. "Oh, hey, Brendon!" he says as he comes up. "Haven't seen you in a while, how'ya doing?" His tone has an almost perfect element of surprise, and he's pretty damn proud of himself for not squeaking.

Brendon manages to (halfway) decently feign astonishment, waving at Patrick and grinning. "Hey, man!" His normally loud, confident voice has a shaky undertone, adding to Patrick's growing concern.It's then that the guy decides to turn around.

Patrick freezes in his path, feeling all the blood drain from his face, and his hands grow cold. This can't be happening, this can't be real, this isn't _Allie_.

" _Pete?_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there is the part that everyone knew was coming from the moment they read the first word of the summary. There you go.
> 
> Awkward Story Of The Day:
> 
> Employee: *knocks on fitting room door to see if it's occupied or not*  
> Me: Hi


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mwahaha, angsty short chapter. >:D
> 
> Ily anyway <3
> 
> Prepare yourselves, 9/23/16 is coming

This can't be happening.This is a big misunderstanding, he must've come to the wrong place, it's just someone who really, really looks like Pete, he's dreaming.

Patrick merely stands there, mouth slightly open, a thousand explanations for _why the hell Pete Wentz is here_ slipping through his brain.

Their eyes are locked, whiskey-hazel on ocean-blue, until Pete averts his stare and gives an awkward little wave. "Um. Hi." Patrick doesn't reply. Instead, he looks past Pete at Brendon, who's anxiously sipping his coffee, eyes darting back and forth between the two.

Patrick crosses over to Brendon, who chokes on his coffee and nearly spits it out. Managing to force the scalding liquid down, he makes a pitiful hacking noise and looks up at Patrick. "What?" 

Patrick raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms. "Allie," he growls under his breath, leaning close so that Pete can't hear them. "You said _Allie_ was here."

Brendon chews at the inside of his cheek. "He is."

"So where the hell is he?"

His friend glances pointedly across the table, and suddenly it all clicks. Patrick straightens, stumbling slightly. "Did you... did you set this up?"

" _No_!" Brendon blurts out. "I mean, kind of. But no, not really! But..." Patrick lashes out and grabs Brendon by the arm, pulling him out of the chair and a safe distance away, out of earshot. "But what?" he snarls, eyes dark with fury. "Did you or did you not know who he was?"

Brendon sighs. "I didn't at first, Patrick, I swear. I only found out when he walked up."

Patrick frowns. "And you didn't tell me when you texted me that Allie had, in fact, showed up."

The younger man holds up his hands defensively. "I knew you wouldn't come if you knew, Patrick. And as much as I risked you getting mad at me over it, I needed to let it happen." There's a pleading look in his eyes. "Just give him a chance, dude. You guys had so much together, and I know he fucked you up real bad, but please. It wasn't entirely his fault and you know it."

That isn't what Patrick wants to hear, and it strikes a nerve because he knows how horribly true it is.

"Just talk to him, at least. Give him a chance, Patrick."

Patrick is silent for a long moment. "Fine," he hisses, turning to stalk back to the table. Pete eyes him nervously, chewing at his thumbnail. Patrick refuses to look at him, instead pulling out his phone, just to make it look like he could care less. He doesn't really have anything to do, but he brings up his Twitter feed, trying to ignore the incessant churning of his stomach.

Brendon gingerly sits down and picks at a spot of rust on the metal table. "So," Patrick says after a long, ear-piercing silence, not taking his eyes off his phone. "Allie, huh?"

Pete fidgets, and Patrick smirks inwardly. "Um, yeah," he mumbles, and his voice is a lot smaller than the loud, snarky tone that Patrick remembers and once adored. "Allie."

They stay quiet for another tense minute, until Brendon excuses himself to get more coffee.

"Why did you do it?" Patrick asks, his voice barely audible. Pete exhales slowly, staring down at his hands. "I don't know. Missed you, I guess. Lonely."

"So why not go find some other person, replace me? Forget about me?" Venom creeps into Patrick's voice, lacing his words with tiny daggers and harpoons, meant to stab and wound and poison wherever they could reach. "You've done it before."

Pain fills Pete's brown eyes, and Patrick feels a rush of cruel, sadistic satisfaction. He's hit where he knows it hurts.

Pete stares down into his caffè latte, pursing his lips. Patrick continues. "Did you _ever_ care, Peter? Was I just your ticket out of Chicago? Your ticket to fame? To red carpets? A shoulder to cry on?"

Pete squeezes his eyes shut and digs his blunt nails into his palms, stricken. "Patrick..."

"What was I to you, _Peter_? Was I _anything at all_?"

"Patrick, you were everything to me. Not a ticket to anything. My best friend, everyth--"

Patrick cuts him off with an icy laugh, devoid of amusement. "Bullshit. I was just another pretty face in your scrapbook. Who could ever love _this_?"

He gestures down at himself, knowing that he's on his way to crossing the blurry, thin line between angry and wild. But he can't bring himself to care at the moment; Pete needs to feel the same pain that Patrick did.

Pete bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, murmuring something inaudible. Patrick leans forward with a mocking expression on his features. "What was that?"

The older man lifts his head slightly, the beginnings of tears glinting in his eyes. " _I_ could."

Patrick sits back, barking out harsh laughter, ignoring the sudden return of the  butterflies in his gut. "But you _didn't_."

"I did."

Brendon chooses this moment to race out of the building, plopping back into his seat and nearly spilling his coffee. He glances frantically between Pete and Patrick, grin too wide and eyes too anxious, ignoring Patrick's shell-shocked features. "Hey, you guys are talking! Great!"

Patrick regains his composure and throws him a look. Brendon cowers, and the older boy rises abruptly from his chair, metal screeching on concrete.

" _Fuck you,_ " he snarls in Pete's direction, storming away to his car down the block.

 

Patrick slams the door and falls face-down onto the bed. His head is swimming with the events of earlier, and he can hardly think straight.

Pete said he missed him.

_The asshole was probably lying._

Pete said he meant something to him.

_His stupid girl-jeans should have been in flames._

Pete said he loved him.

_Maybe._

Patrick turns over and scowls at the ceiling, disgusted with himself. 

Of _course_ Pete had loved him.

Him and _all_ his one-night stands and fractured relationships.

Like Patrick could ever compare to Jeanae or Mikey or Ashlee.

Like he could ever be _anything_ to Pete.

Like Pete could ever love him back.

Patrick curls into a ball, not bothering to get under the blankets, and cries himself to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have one thing to say.
> 
> MCRX is #14 on the iTunes charts last I checked.
> 
> WE SHALL RISE MY FRENS

_Patrick stands shirtless in front of the bathroom mirror, scrutinizing his reflection and wrinkling his nose in disapproval._

_Pinching his sides, he decides that he's just the same as last time, and gave a small sigh. He twists awkwardly to criticize the pink stretch marks on his hips, pokes at a scar on his side, silently degrading himself._ He needs to lose weight, god, he's fat, he's so--

_The bathroom door bangs open and Patrick lets loose a string of obscenities, shrinking into the corner and snatching up his t-shirt to cover himself._

_Pete is in the doorway, looking suspicious and angry. "What are you doing?"_

_It's a question that Patrick has heard so many times now, with that exact same expression on Pete's face every time. Pete knows full well what Patrick is doing. Patrick glares at him, shirt still tightly clenched in his fist, covering his torso._

_He hates for anyone to see him shirtless; hell, he hates seeing_ himself _shirtless._

_"None of your fucking business," he spits at Pete, who simply crosses his arms, leans against the doorframe, and scowls._

_Patrick feels a warm blush begin to creep up his chest, into his cheeks, because, well, the sight is kind of_ hot _, with Pete's dark bangs falling over his smudged-eyeliner glare._

_Irritated with himself for thinking such things, Patrick glowers and tries to close the door on the older man. Pete merely returns his angry stare and sticks out a foot before the door can close. Patrick growls in frustration and gives a mighty shove, surprisingly strong for a guy his size but not enough to dislodge Pete._

_The dark-haired boy forces his way back into the cramped bathroom and wrenches the t-shirt out of Patrick's grip, throwing it to the side. He takes hold of Patrick's bare shoulders, and Patrick wriggles and flails in a futile attempt to get free._

_"Stop," Pete growls, and Patrick does, going still under Pete's hands. Pete turns him toward the mirror and Patrick clenches his eyes shut, unwilling to see the pale canvas marred by pink streaks. The remnants of his self-loathing are still bubbling inside him. He can't look._

_"Open your eyes," Pete tells him, and Patrick shakes his head. "Please, 'Trick," he says, his voice growing noticeably softer. He lets go of Patrick's shoulders, hands trailing downwards to clasp Patrick's. The shorter boy blushes, realizing that Pete is now pressed up behind him._

_He slowly opens his eyes, and Pete squeezes his hands._

_"You are not ugly. You are not fat. Don't listen to what they say. You are not_ any _of those things. You are beautiful and handsome and perfect and_ you _, 'Trick. And I wouldn't change you for the world."_

_Tears well up in Patrick's blue eyes and he closes them again. He wishes he could believe Pete._

_"You don't mean that, Pete."_

_Pete exhales against his neck, and Patrick gives an involuntary shiver._

_"I do mean it. And I'm going to make you believe it if it takes me fifty years, if I have to scream it from the tip of the Empire State Building, if I have to go through hell and back. You are going to believe it, 'Trick, because it's_ true _."_

 

Patrick wakes up shivering, tears trickling down his cheeks in a steady stream. His shoulders burn where Pete had touched him all those years ago, his back tingles where they'd been pressed up together.

He gives a shaky sob, forcing the feelings away, into the Pandora's box of his mind, where he'd tried to keep them locked away, so that he couldn't miss Pete.

But Patrick had lost the key, and a lock doesn't work without its key.

He swings his aching, cramped legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the mussed-up sheets, and hobbles to the small kitchen.

No sooner has he sat down with a cup of coffee (made his way, not Pete's, thank you very much) than a knock sounds at the door. Sighing, Patrick trips out of his chair, checking his reflection on the way to the door. He'd rather not anyone know he's been crying.

Patrick opens the door to a sheepish-looking Pete.

He scowls and tries to close the door, but Pete is too quick for him and shoves his foot in the doorway. Patrick growls in frustration. _Damn Pete's stage-dodging reflexes._

"I want to talk," Pete says, peeking around the edge of the door. Patrick doesn't open it. "Well, I don't. So fuck off, Wentz."

He tries to close it again, but Pete catches it. "Please?"

Patrick barks out a cold laugh, all sentiment left over from his memory-dream draining away in an instant. "Yeah, because 'please' is gonna get you anything and everything you want. What are you, a four-year-old? You certainly act like it," he spits, and this time a spark of anger flares in Pete's whiskey eyes.

"Oh, and you're the epitome of mature," he snaps. "Why can't we talk this out?"

Patrick doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of an answer, so he keeps his silence, glaring knives. Pete seems to take that as an "I-don't-have-an-answer-to-that-question-whoopsy-daisy," and barges in before Patrick can try to close the door a third time. 

The smaller man is left slightly speechless, still grasping the door as Pete turns to face him. "Let's just talk." Patrick finds himself nodding warily and successfully closing the door.

Those stupid goddamn doors that Pete is always forbidding him to close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry but there is no ASOTD today, as basically all I did was trudge around Office Max in a depressed daze with my earbud in to block out the Justin Bieber song they were playing, and curl up on my bed with FUTCT playing out loud with my mom in the room.  
> Maybe not the best idea I've ever had, but she didn't seem to give a shit, so it's all good!  
> She probably just couldn't understand the lyrics xD


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I had a sad case of writer's block.
> 
> Hope this chapter isn't too terrible. Y'all finally got what you wanted (kind of) tho.
> 
> Ily.

Patrick slams two mugs of coffee down onto the table, and Pete gingerly leans forward to claim one. The blond reclines in his seat, sipping his coffee and avoiding eye contact with the other man.

"So I guess I should explain," Pete says after a while, his voice nearly inaudible.

Patrick takes another gulp of coffee, careful to keep his expression stony and blank. "There's nothing to explain."

"Then will you tell me why you feel this way?"

The question is so shockingly straightforward that Patrick almost looks up. "You already know the answer to that question, Peter. I'm going to let you tell me that on your own."

Pete frowns. "Patrick, I'm trying to actually _do_ something here."

"For once in your life? Good for you."

"You don't have to be like this."

Patrick sneers. "Don't I? I seem to recall you being the one who broke up the band and severed our ties."

Pete's face is a mixture of pain, anger, and guilt. Patrick knows better than to fall for that trap.

"It was you, too. Don't place all the blame on me, Patrick. Joe wanted a hiatus. Andy wanted a hiatus. We all needed a break."

"You didn't have to fuck me up as bad as you did. Could you not see my pain?" Patrick's voice rises, and he grips his mug so tightly that his knuckles turn white.

Pete sighs and leans forward, rubbing his face with both hands. "I'm sorry."

A mocking, humorless laugh bubbles from Patrick's raw throat. The irrepressible urge to punch Pete, scream at him, make him feel Patrick's agony surges through his blood, sparking beneath his pale skin, and his fingers twitch. " _Why_ are you sorry? Because I was the ugly, fat singer and you realized too late that you should've picked someone else? Because I was just another person to sing you to sleep and another shoulder to cry on? Because to the world, I was your best friend, _inseparable_ , but offstage I was just another band member who brought us fame? Because--"

His rant is cut off abruptly when Pete lashes out, causing Patrick to flinch, but the older man only slams his mug down onto the table.

"I am _done_ with your shit," Pete snarls, whiskey eyes aflame. "Why do you see yourself this way, Patrick? How can you not see that I care? Do you honestly fucking think that I would've gone through all that online dating shit if I hadn't cared about you? Because I _care_ , Patrick, I _fucking care! I always have!_ More than I wanted to!"

He sinks back into the couch cushions with a huff, rubbing his face again. Patrick is slightly shell-shocked by the outburst, and he keeps his silence for a while, careful not to let his surprise show.

"Why did you leave, then?"

Pete's head jerks up. "Huh?"

Patrick avoids his gaze. "Why did you leave? If you cared so much?"

The dark-haired man hesitates.

Patrick waits.

Pete finally speaks, a low mutter as he stares down into his half-empty mug of tea. "I was scared."

"Of what?"

More silence.

"I was scared that if I didn't do something, I'd go mad, or at least fuck things up the worst I possibly could. The best thing to do at the time, I thought, would be to cut myself off completely. So I did just that."

Patrick leans forward, just a bit, intrigued against his will. He can feel his anger softening, and mentally slaps himself. This isn't the time to be _weak_. He isn't insecure, hat-wearing, fat, quiet Patrick anymore.

Except for that he knows he'll always be insecure about  _something._

"If you didn't do something about what?"

"You're not going to want to hear this, Patrick."

"I've heard my fair share of things I didn't want to hear."

"You'll say I'm lying."

"I've sung about my fair share of lies."

Pete doesn't look amused. "Patrick, trust me when I say you won't feel the same way. You can even punch me if you want. But running away isn't working, and neither has trying to hide behind another identity. So I think this is the only way, or I'm gonna go insane with it."

Patrick sighs and sets down his tea. "Tell me, then."

Pete does the same with his mug and sits up just a bit straighter, running his hands over the torn knees of his black jeans.

Patrick feels electric anticipation curl in his gut.

Finally, after a long, deafening silence, Pete looks up, inhaling somewhat shakily. "Patrick..." His voice comes out a hoarse croak; he coughs and tries again.

"Patrick, I--I loved you. And... and I think I still do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LET THE PETERICK GLITTER COUNCIL COMMENCE
> 
> Life Tip:
> 
> When one's playlist is on shuffle, they should check upcoming songs to ensure that Rat A Tat will not start blaring at full volume after She's My Winona finishes, especially if a) their parents are in the other room, and/or b) they are across the room and therefore cannot move fast enough to muffle or turn down the sound.
> 
> It's Courtney, bitch.
> 
> Seriously guys. Check your playlists.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry this took so long, I know I promised another chapter "very soon." Obviously that didn't happen, and this one is a bit short. I haven't really written much recently, though. My depression is getting worse, so half the nights I don't even open up the draft to add more on.   
> To be honest, your comments are what keep me going much of the time. Without you I don't know where I'd be; you make me smile even when I feel like I can't keep going.  
> So thank you. I mean it. I know that all sounded pretty cheesy and maybe a bit cringy, but really, thank you all so much for everything. <3 <3 <3  
> Stay alive, frens. |-/

Patrick downs yet another shot, coughing and sputtering as it burns the back of his throat. It's happened so many times over the past three days that he's lost count, but he doesn't care.

He needs to stop thinking.

He needs to stop feeling.

He needs to stop caring.

He needs to stop thinking and feeling and caring about _Pete_.

Patrick swipes the back of his hand across his mouth, his lips tingling at the contact. Maybe he's finally done it, maybe he won't have to think about Pete any more, at least for the rest of the night. To hell with the awful hangover he'll inevitably have in the morning; as long as this gives him relief, he doesn't care.

Then it comes back, like it has every time he's tried to push it away.

 

_"Patrick, I--I loved you. And... and I think I still do."_

 

Patrick hisses and lurches from the table, knocking over the thankfully-empty shot glass. He stumbles to his phone, the world spinning and tipping, those whiskey eyes digging into the depths of his mind. It takes a few tries, but the next thing he knows, Pete's voice is on the other end, scratchy and hoarse like he's been crying. "Patrick?"

"Why did I call you again?" Patrick mumbles, more to himself than anything, but Pete hears him.

"What the fu--are you drunk, Patrick?"

Patrick giggles, his vision tilting suddenly and blurring at the edges, and he has to grab onto the nightstand to keep from falling over. "Noooo..." he squeaks, throat burning again. He can practically hear Pete raise an eyebrow.

"Don't fuck with me, Stump. You're drunk, and I'm gonna drive over there now before you fall out of the window or something." Patrick rolls his eyes and snickers. "No no no, I'm not that drunk, Pete. You don't need to come over."

Hazy memories dance and swirl in the back of his mind. He can't quite grasp them.

"Motherfucker," Pete grumbles before hanging up.

 

Twenty minutes later (or so it seems; Patrick can't really tell in his drunken state), there's an insistent pounding at his door. Patrick stumbles to answer, calling out "Coming!" in a high-pitched, whiny tone. He winces and giggles at the sudden, inadvertent change in his voice, nearly falling over as he attempts to look through the peephole.

He fails miserably (damn his short height) and instead settles for yelling, "Who is it?" in the same voice as before, drawing out the vowels and giggling madly.

"Pete," someone says from the other side, and _whoa_ \--suddenly Patrick remembers Pete's phone call. He flings open the door with a great deal of enthusiasm, seeing Pete's wince as the hinges shriek at the rough treatment.

"Heeeeeey, Petey!" he giggles, grabbing a very surprised Pete by his bony wrist and yanking him inside.

Pete frowns down at him once the door is closed, and Patrick gazes up at him with unfocused eyes, swaying slightly where he stands.

"Why did you call?" Pete says quietly, after a long silence. Patrick sighs dramatically, lurching forward and resting his head on Pete's shoulder. "I dunno," he slurs, the room swimming before his eyes. He starts to stumble, but Pete catches him and steers him gently towards the couch. "You should probably sit down, Patrick."

Patrick lets himself be settled on the sofa, staring at the ceiling with an absurd new fascination. He stays that way until Pete returns from the kitchen, holding the familiar, nearly-empty bottle of whiskey in one hand and the slightly-chipped shot glass in the other. The older man is frowning. "How much of this have you had, Patrick?"

Patrick rolls his eyes and snorts. "Um, I dunno, maybe..." He loses his train of thought for a moment. "Uh, like, today, or over the past few days?"

Pete's scowl deepens. "Let's start with today."

Patrick's head lolls to the side, his bleached hair hanging over the side of the couch. "Huh..."

Pete takes that for an answer. "Enough to get you really drunk, then."

He turns to exit back into the kitchen, then apparently changes his mind. "I don't think you're in danger of alcohol poisoning yet, but you'd better hold off for a while, Stump." The dark-haired man opens the window and pours the remnants of the whiskey out. Patrick whines in protest and attempts to get off the couch and rescue what's left of the drink, but instead lands with a thump on the floor. Pete scoffs and throws the bottle into the trash can before collecting Patrick from where he lies in a heap on the carpet, carefully placing him back on the sofa.

He seems about to turn away again, presumably to find the rest of Patrick's alcohol stash, when a sudden impulse seizes Patrick.

For such a small guy, he's surprisingly strong. He grabs Pete by the wrist and hauls him down to the couch, making eye contact for a single burning second before their lips crash together. Pete is frozen in shock, his lips still against Patrick's. They're chapped and tense, yet somehow warm and soft at the same time. The blissful warmth filling Patrick's dizzy head lasts but a moment, fading abruptly when Pete jerks away.

"Patrick," he whispers roughly, "you're drunk, really fucking drunk. You can't do this. You're gonna hate yourself in the morning if you do and you're gonna hate me even more than you do already." A fresh bout of the whiskey-induced haze seeps through Patrick's mind, and he gives Pete a lopsided smile, his blue-green eyes dark and unfocused.

As if of its own accord, his hand lands on Pete's thigh, stroking gently just above the knee. The older man gulps, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, and meets Patrick's gaze with an uncertain, pleading one of his own. Patrick merely throws back what he vaguely thinks is an encouraging grin. "Aw, c'mon, Petey," he slurs in a low voice. "Don't be like that, we're fine." He draws out the syllable, leaning closer, his skin prickling with heat and anticipation.

Pete shakes his head, averting his eyes from Patrick's. Patrick smirks and reaches out, gently turning Pete's head back to look at him.

"You know what, Petey?"

Pete stays silent, looking everywhere but at Patrick.

"I'm not just drunk, I really think I'm in love with you."

Pete's eyes widen at his words, and Patrick remembers that they're the color of whiskey.

 _Hm_. He was drinking whiskey earlier, wasn't he?

"And I could just drink you right up," Patrick is suddenly murmuring against Pete's collarbone, feeling the other man shiver.

_How did I get there?_

_When did I lean forward like this?_

_Did I really just say that out loud?_

_Apparently so._

Patrick parts his lips slightly, grazing them along Pete's throat. The latter lets out a soft whimper, tilting his head back. Patrick moves up to his jawline, and Pete suddenly stiffens before sitting up and away from Patrick.

"What?" Patrick whines, furrowing his brow. The world seems to sway and he has to fight to keep himself on the couch. "Don't you want me, Petey?" He knows he sounds bratty as fuck but he can't bring himself to care. Pete doesn't seem to, either, but he frowns at Patrick anyway. "You're drunk, Patrick, really fucking drunk, I don't know how many times I've gotta say it, and God, I want this so fucking bad, but--but I'm not going to take advantage of this. You're totally wasted and you don't mean it. I'm not going to let you do this because I know you'll regret it in the morning if you even remember it at all." Pete finishes his rant with a deep breath, avoiding Patrick's unfocused eyes.

Even through the thick haze of intoxication, Patrick feels his heart fall from his ribcage and hit the floor. 

He fumbles to push Pete away from him, lurching off the couch and towards the bedroom. 

"'Trick," Pete weakly calls from behind him. 

Patrick hardly hears it before the door slams and he collapses onto the sheets, tears leaking from his eyes. The world goes dark almost instantly, but his quiet, choked sobs don't fade for a long while yet.

 

 Patrick wakes to a few of his least favorite things. 

Blinding sunlight infiltrating his room, for one. 

A massive, pounding headache from his hangover, for another. 

He rolls over with a groan, something itching at the back of his brain. He can't quite remember what he did last night; yet he knows what happened. He just can't really remember at all. 

Then he falls out of bed with a startled yelp and a loud thump, and within five seconds the door to his room blasts open. Still tangled in the blankets, Patrick shrieks and cowers, instinctively attempting to kick his warm cocoon away whilst pulling the sheets up to his chin. But no, it isn't a burglar or a psychotic ex-girlfriend or a SWAT team.

It's just Pete, peering down at Patrick with a mixture of apparent concern and amusement in his whiskey eyes. 

_Whiskey._

_Pete._

It comes back to Patrick in a rush, hitting so hard that he actually claps his hands to his ears and massages his temples, groaning. 

Shit.

"Are you okay?" Pete asks tentatively. Patrick shrugs and pulls himself upright, perching on the bed with as much dignity as he can muster. "You... stayed the night?" he asks, his voice a dry croak. Pete nods sheepishly. "Yeah. Sorry. I hope that was okay, but I just didn't want to leave you to wake up with a massive hangover and... you know. Have to deal with it yourself and all."

Patrick scowls and turns back to the bed, trying to smooth out the wrinkled, tear-stained bedspread. "I'm fine, thanks," he says flatly, pushing back the guilt that follows when Pete's shoulders slump a fraction. Patrick really kind of wants to stay in bed and feel sorry for himself, but nausea is seeping through him and his mouth is starting to fill with bile, so he pushes past Pete and practically falls into the bathroom and in front of the toilet. 

Not a second too soon; he's emptying what little is in his stomach, gagging and retching When Patrick finally raises his head out of the toilet bowl, he swipes at his lips with the back of his hand and groans. 

Pete is in the kitchen, sitting at the table and not doing anything in particular besides staring blankly at the scratched-up tabletop, stained with drops of alcohol. A glass of water and some Advil wait in front of him, and he glances up when Patrick enters the room. "Hey." 

Patrick doesn't respond; instead, he goes to sit across from Pete, slumping into the chair and running his hands through his bleached hair. 

Pete timidly pushes the water and pills over to Patrick, who downs them both without a word. 

They stay silent for a long time, until Pete shatters the fragile glass wall of quiet. 

"Why did you say it?" 

The question should be simple. The answer should be "I was drunk and I wasn't thinking." The outcome should be silence and at least another year spent with Brendon and on dating sites and without Pete. 

It isn't that simple. They both know it never is. 

Patrick shifts in his seat, picking at a stain on the tabletop. 

"I don't know," he finally murmurs. 

They both know that he knows. They both know full well why he said it. Pete knows it and Patrick won't admit it. He's too scared. It's easier to keep on lying to himself, and it seems so much simpler, too.

But they both know it never is.

The silence is eternal and deafening, or at least it seems that way, until Pete shatters it by pushing back his chair and rising abruptly. "I should go," he says quietly. 

Patrick doesn't reply. 

The door clicks shut behind Pete, the explosion of a bomb in the seemingly impenetrable silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never been drunk so I don't know if this is accurate to how a drunk person feels/acts, sorry if it isn't :P

**Author's Note:**

> You can already see where this is going, can't you...


End file.
